Invisalign
by randomlvr1
Summary: Rest assured - braces are not just painful, they're kinky, too. That makes up for it, right?


_**Title:**_ Invisalign  
_**Summary:** Rest assured - braces are not just painful, they're kinky, too. That makes up for it, right?  
**Characters/Pairings:** America/England  
**Rating/Warnings:** T - for language, primarily; Uh . . . and beware of braces kink?  
**Genre:** Humor/Romance  
**Word Count:** 3,264 - I'M BACK FROM THE BRINK, BABY!  
**Notes:** And ode to the metal in my mouth. T________T_

**_And please go vote on my profile poll~!_**

* * *

Walking into the familiar meeting room, England couldn't help but experience the misplaced feeling of walking into the wrong room. Par usual, Germany was heading the table with a useless aura of business as a scatter-minded Italy hung off his arm dotingly, while the rest of the (unwillingly) assembled nations dragged the room into a deeper level of chaos. Of course, Hungary and Japan would be standing off in a corner, recording everything inconspicuously. (The blond nation had to blanch at the thought of Japan being converted into a second Hungary.)

But something loud and obnoxious the English nation couldn't put a finger to was missing. Shaking his head clear, England dispelled his unnecessary worries and took his seat in front of a steaming cup of earl grey and a bottle of aspirin (both were mandatory prerequisites by the nation).

It was the faint and yet unmistakable scent of oil, meat, and ketchup that ruined the fragrance of his tea that finally alerted England to the nagging sense he hadn't been able to name. A disapproving frown settled comfortably on his features as he followed the smell to a shaking mound of blue fabric under the table.

"America," England half-sighed, half-snapped, "what in the bloody hell are you doing under here? . . . And _what_ do you think you're wearing?! God forbid that we actually do something constructive during this meeting, but you must still make yourself professionally presentable!"

As the blue mound shifted, a messy-blond tuff of hair followed by wide, sky-blue eyes peered out from under a hood. England was appalled to see that his once-colony was not wearing his usual - and at least _somewhat_ decent - habiliments, but some atrocious jacket and baggy jeans. That itself wouldn't have been so bad if America had bought the correct size and had worn a belt, but, of course, the younger nation continued to aggravate him with his low-riding pants.

The English nation was too busy studying the crimes against what was supposed to be a professional attire to notice America pull a notepad and pen from the depths of his pouch, and scribbled something hastily on the paper. America had to shove the pad into England's face before the other could register the note.

_"Hey Iggy - just chillin' out. What's up?"_

England didn't even have the capacity to comment on the multiple issues he had with the note (the blatant mutilation on his language, the loud and messy print that America insisted upon writing in, the usage of the detested nickname, the way it entirely ignored his comments on the other's atrocious outfit, etc.), and instead focused on the nature of the note itself. "Why are you writing these preposterous notes instead of using your God-given mouth? Not that I don't appreciate the silence."

America pointedly ignored his former-guardian's scathing jab (knowing full well that no one in the right mind could find the hero's voice grating in any shape or form). Instead, he occupied himself with scribbling down another sentence.

_"I got a sore throat. Can't talk."_

The only sign the British nation showed of his concern for the younger nation was a slight downward twitch his lips, unwilling to openly express any sentiments for his once-colony. Though, he couldn't help but observe the disheveled state America seemed to be caught in. His dignity kept his face otherwise clear, but he didn't like the way the other's his hair and clothes seemed even more chaotic than usual (which was saying a lot for the country that appeared as if he'd never seen a brush or ironing board in his life), and the way dark rings marred the skin under his eyes.

"Well, how did you get sick?" England berated half-heartedly.

_"I dunno."_

England didn't even try to fight the roll of his eyes as he attempted to yank America from under the table roughly. "Well, it doesn't matter. Now, come and sit here properly for the meeting."

The other nation fought his attempts easily, jerking off the hand on his hoodie and shaking his head hastily. The British nation endeavored again to drag the larger nation from under the table, but America only shook his head even more desperately and backed away from him. Sighing at the beginnings of a migraine, England deliberated on leaving the other nation to his devices under the table, and returning back to his seat to watch the rest of the room dissolve into deeper levels of chaos while downing several aspirin with a deep swig of his tea.

* * *

The only appearance America made through the entire meeting was a brief show of his hand when he displayed a very large "HERE!" on his notepad during roll. The remainder of the meeting was spent under the table, doing God-knows-what and being uncharacteristically reserved. And though England reveled in the relative peace in the first few minutes, the rest of the meeting was - to hell with it, he might as well come out with it - positively uneventful and _boring_. The Briton didn't think he'd actually miss the other's maddeningly deafening voice until said voice was silenced.

He dared to steal a sly glance under the table to check on the younger nation, but only found America looking positively miserable as he massaged his cheek gingerly, flinching slightly every time his hand passed over a particularly sensitive spot. Utterly confounded, England slipped under the table and sat next to the unaware nation distastefully on the garbage-littered floor.

"What _are_ you doing?" England demanded outright.

Unfortunately, America seemed to have been too engrossed in his new activity to notice his former mentor's presence at first, and his sudden remark startled him to a very ungraceful pile several feet away from his original position. Initially shocked, England wasn't able to regulate his maternal instinct as he leaned forward and held a hand over his once colony's cheek.

"I thought you said that your throat hurt," England scrutinized, pressing his hand to the other's face. "What's all this bullock about-"

Suddenly, America jumped away from the other's touch as if poked by a hot iron (or veggie burger), tears springing up in his eyes and hand**s** flying up to cover his cheeks. England watched dumbly as the self-proclaimed hero quickly sat up from his fetal position - somehow managing to bump his head on the underside of the table and leave considerable dents on the table, his head, and his ego - and crawled out from under the table. By the time the Briton had ventured back to his seat topside, he was left to face the quickly dissipating scent of hamburgers and a hundred pairs of directed curiously at him (except for Germany, who was giving him a hard glare outlined by traces of exasperation).

In hopes of dispersing the eyes on him, he mumbled something about 'that sodding wanker' and 'his inexplicable burger cravings', and everyone turned away disinterestedly (sans for France, who was giving him a grin that obviously spoke of perverse thoughts). Pushing his incident with America to a back crevice of his mind, England downed another aspirin with tea, wishing it were something stronger.

Minutes passed, and America still had not returned from his sudden venture. After nearly an hour, England had been reduced to a nervous jumble of fidgeting and cursory glances at the door. And while his concern for the younger nation eventually returned, said nation did not. Finally, after nearly an hour and a half of raging war with his ego and self-respect, the British nation slammed his hands down and stomped away from his seat, muttering some excuse that included tea and 'dragging his fat arse' back into the meeting room.

"Oh, _mon Angleterre_, how obvious you are," France drawled with a meaningful grin. He laughed throatily, "Go! Go run after your _petit ami!_"

England still had enough dignity and comprehension of French to feel compelled to hurl a tea cup at the lecherous nation's face, which he promptly did. Leaving an injured France writhing dramatically on the ground and several more pairs of curious eyes than he'd usually like on him, the Briton swept out of the meeting room.

He eventually found the missing nation in the dining room, morosely drinking the contents of a cup through a straw. With somewhat of a surprise, England realized that it was milk, and not that corrosive carbonated pop, that was in the container.

"When was the last time you've actually drank milk?" England jabbed, taking the seat next to America casually. "Or, a better question would be when was the last time you drank milk that wasn't processed, sweetened, and artificially colored?"

The unusually subdued nation's eyes remained glued to a spot on the table, and his only acknowledgment of his former mentor's presence was a slight heave of the shoulders that England interpreted as a bored shrug. England found it necessary just to cut to the chase before the usually energetic nation degraded further into a pile of unresponsive mush.

"Okay - what's wrong?" he abruptly demanded, turning in his seat to face the larger nation and unconsciously crossing his arms. "You must really be sick today, because I haven't heard you sprout a single word about being a hero or any nonsense at all, and you just up and left halfway through the meeting."

Another half shrug.

"And what was that bullock about your cheek?" England interrogated. "You didn't mention anything about your cheek. Or have all those sickly colored sweets finally gotten to you in the form of a cavity? And don't you dare shrug again!"

America stopped mid-shrug, releasing the straw in his mouth with a wet _pop _and turning his head listlessly to the seething English nation. He stared disinterestedly for a second before turning back to his drink and sipping the white liquid excruciatingly slowly. Meanwhile, England focused every fiber of his patience in an attempt to dissuade the urge to throttle his maddeningly defiant once-ward, an urge which only made him more determined to unearth the reasons behind the other's unusually energy-lacking disposition.

Spontaneously, England pointed toward the wall behind him and feigned shock as he shouted, "Look! It's an alien invasion! And they have . . . hamburgers!"

The British nation studied the younger nation as he spun around in his seat, knocking the glass over carelessly in a frenzied haste, with a frantic 'Where?!' and gave the direction in which he was pointing in a cursory examination.

But when America turned to his former-mentor with a disappointed and demanding pout, England was too shocked to make a coherent statement, and the younger nation was too wrapped up in his own discontent to realize why the other was staring at him with jaw-slacked disbelief.

"What's wrong, Iggy?" America unknowingly asked.

Blinking away the remnants of his surprise, England clicked his jaw shut and an almost-exasperated sigh worked through his lips. "You went to all that trouble just to hide braces?"

Immediately, the other's hand flew up to his mouth and his head shook vehemently, trying to deny what England already knew existed - two neat rows of metal and wire that inconveniently masked the nation's once flawless smile. Not that England would ever admit - aloud or silently - that he actually missed the sight of America's near-blinding beam.

"Don't do that next time - you had me wor-" but England caught himself before he let loose the 'W' word, and instead turned demanding. "Why do you have them anyway? You don't need them, do you?"

By now, America had degraded from denial to humbling embarrassment, preferring to sink into his seat and hide his deformed teeth from the person whose opinion he secretly valued the most. Heanswered the questions deliberately slowly and with a hand over his mouth, muffling the words to mockery of his usually confident voice. "Awesome heroes like me aren't supposed to have any problems, especially with their famous grin. But, my dentist told my boss that I had some ortho-something-or-other problems, and he made me get stupid _braces_."

The thick-browed male just snorted, unconvinced. "Well, that's still no reason to make some kind of soap opera out of-"

"You've never had braces, Arthur," America mumbled, fixing the other nation with a pained stare that made the words catch in England's throat. "It really, _really_ hurts, and nothing I take helps. And I haven't been able to eat anything solid, sweet, or sticky since yesterday - not even burgers! It sucks."

For once, England decided against patronizing the younger, and sometimes incredibly infuriating, nation, and, instead, leaned forward and pressed a comforting kiss on the other's forehead. "I'm sorry that it - as you so eloquently put it - sucks. How about I make some soup for you?"

His former-colony's face screwed up into one of disgust and horror. "Iggy, the pain is bad enough - you really don't need to torture me with your cookin-Ow! Ow, ow, ow . . . I can't even talk without it hurting."

"Fine, I'll go out and buy some," he managed, ignoring the comment in light of the other's compromised state and instead pressing a firm kiss to the other's lips.

America almost immediately pulled back, crying out in pain and rubbing his lips tenderly. England stared disbelievingly, wallowing in a new revelation. "You mean, it hurts to kiss, too?"

The honey blond nodded pathetically and a devilish side of England couldn't help but suddenly appreciate the deliciously delicate condition the younger nation was in. Without his usual consideration, he leaned forward again and pressed his lips - this time even harder - to the other's sore lips and teeth. Groans of pain soon morphed into moans. But when the former-pirate finally pulled back, the shield of pleasure dissipated and America experienced new, undiscovered levels of pain.

"Bastard," he mumbled weakly as his hands massaged his throbbing jaw.

England only smirked deviously as he walked out of the room in his promised search for liquid sustenance.

* * *

"Mr. Prime Minister, you needed to speak to me?" England politely inquired as he stepped into his boss's office.

"Oh, Mr. Kirkland," the Prime Minister acknowledged, looking up from his report. "Yes, please have a seat."

The personified nation watched the routine rain drown his capital in bucketfuls of dreariness through the window as his boss collected himself and faced England with a tired sigh. "Well, I just got a call from your dentist, Dr. Michaels, and he had some news to report."

"That sodding bastard," the usually professional nation growled under his breath. His boss either ignored him or didn't hear.

"At your last appointment-" At this, the old Prime Minister directed a pointed glance at his nation, who responded with a flustered string of unintelligible mumblings about 'the bloody torturer' and how 'absolutely unnecessary to knock me out with laughing gas to get me there'. "-he took some x-rays, and he's voiced his concerns about your dental alignment-"

Suddenly, the mutters stopped and England stared wide-eyed at his reasonable boss, knowing full well why a dreadful, foreboding sense was settling in his stomach. He bit his lip expectantly as he silently prayed to whatever god screwing around with his sorry life to please save him from what torture he was sure they were about to put him through.

"-You know how much appearances mean in the political world, and we must keep up yours - ours!" His boss paused, whipping off his reading glasses dramatically as he finally made direct eye contact with his nation. "He's recommended the best orthodontist in the country, and he urges us to make an appointment with him to talk about the possibility of braces."

England promptly fainted from the irony.

* * *

"Ahaha! Iggy got braces! Iggy got braces!"

Without his usual spirit, the British nation slapped the boisterous blond on the upside of the head, cringing when another assault of pain wracked his jaw unexpectedly. America only laughed harder, going as far as to fall out of his seat and clutching his abdomen. The slight, uncomfortable furrow of his furry eyebrows diminished the effect of England's usually passionate glare.

When his former-ward laughed with even more gusto at his pained glare, the older nation gave up entirely and devoted his attention to his increasingly sore teeth.

Finally, the bespectacled nation subsided to the occasional chuckle, wiping tears of mirth from his blue eyes. "This is sooo priceless . . ."

"You're absolutely insufferable," England mumbled weakly and with the least amount of jaw movement possible, unable to express his complete hatred for the obnoxious country properly through his new mouth full of metal.

A dangerous glint appeared in the world's superpower as he inclined forward and backed his smaller partner up against the wall with a dull thud. He pressed his lips to the other's ear, his metal-covered teeth grazing the flesh and enticing shivers from the older nation, and whispered, "Just think of this as payback for last time, _Iggy_."

And before the British nation could manage a word of protest, America's lips descended upon his, pressing roughly and inducing unimaginable waves of pain. But, after several minutes of relentless closed-mouth clashing, England couldn't find himself to care much for the pain shooting up his nerves - in fact; it seemed to excite him further. And when the other country attempted to pull away, the previously sore nation met his efforts with a harsh kiss of his own.

"You weren't supposed to _like _it," America muttered amusedly against the other's demanding lips.

"Bloody git."

But, when the two nations tried to pull away minutes later - if only to satisfy their aching lungs - two identical shots of pain ran up their nerves and alarming discovery dawned upon them.

_"FUCK!" _

* * *

At nine thirty P.M., a wearied and exhausted orthodontist finished making the notes to his last case (a preteen that had somehow managed to drink enough soda to corrode the cement on his brackets and nearly choke on a dislodged piece of metal) and began closing up his office. But, just as he was about to switch off the lights, his blaring phone broke the previous silence of the room. He deliberated for a moment on ignoring the call, but a stroke of sympathy swung him to answer the phone begrudgingly.

But no amount of experience or patience would prepare him for the extraordinary call he numbly absorbed, or the sight of two grown men, flocked by a number of secret service guards, awkwardly hobbling into his office while connected at the teeth by tangled braces.

"Good evening Mr. Jones," he addressed the taller of the blondes. He nodded to the beet red man attached to him. "And I presume this is your, um, boyfriend, Mr. . . ?"

"Mr. Kirkland," one of the black-clad guards supplied quickly.

The bespectacled blond nodded enthusiastically, inadvertently forcing his partner to do the same. Both their expressions crumpled into ones of pain as the taller blond immediately stopped and groaned from the throbbing that was pricking their nerves.

"Stay still!" the blushing of the two snapped, wincing when the movement brought another wave of pain. "Fucking git . . ."

Wearily, the underpaid orthodontist nodded and motioned to the examination chairs behind him. "This way, gentleman."

And as he watched the two men try to arrange themselves in a way that wasn't too uncomfortable nor compromising, he wondered if he could have save him the trouble of this late-night if he had just equipped his patient with Invisalign.

**_

* * *

_**

And please go vote on my profile poll~!


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